


The Opening Act of Spring

by 108_Stars



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Chickens?, M/M, Multi, Slow Burn, Trans Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert, Trans Character, Trans Dedue Molinaro, Trans Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, farming as therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:48:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26275168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/108_Stars/pseuds/108_Stars
Summary: The fields are devoid of crops of any kind, some muddy and bare, others covered in a coating of detritus left over from the war. He rides past them, up to the tiny house with its crumbling roof.Three years after the war, Ashe returns to Gaspard Territory and rebuilds a farm.
Relationships: Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Dedue Molinaro, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Dedue Molinaro, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Dedue Molinaro
Comments: 20
Kudos: 44
Collections: 2020 Ultra Rarepair Big Bang





	The Opening Act of Spring

**Author's Note:**

> It’s finally here! This ended up being a far bigger project than originally intended, but I couldn’t be more happy about that. Past me was a fool for thinking this whole story could fit in 5-10k. 
> 
> This wouldn’t have been possible without the constant help and support of [Azure](https://twitter.com/bingostaygods), who left so many wonderful comments on my draft of this chapter, and [Snail](https://twitter.com/snale_mail), my source for all farm related knowledge. Thanks, croc fam <3
> 
> There’s [a mix for this fic!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6RIP1KZxyernjNJvnvGCKw) It’ll be updated every chapter, so do go check that out if you’d like to.
> 
> Title for this fic is from the Frank Turner song of the same name, which I highly recommend giving a listen.
> 
> EDIT: Please check out the wonderful art for this piece [here.](https://twitter.com/BleachedBoxers/status/1301660994150768646) bb did such an amazing job <3

The farmhouse sits nestled in a cocoon of ivy and fallen trees. Ashe had almost missed it from the road, the way to his destination only known thanks to a few helpful villagers. The fields are devoid of crops of any kind, some muddy and bare, others covered in a coating of detritus left over from the war. He rides past them, up to the tiny house with its crumbling roof.  
  
“Well, I know why it was so cheap now…”  
  
The previous owner had been desperate to sell, just another in a crowd of people moving their lives further North to areas spared from the worst of war. Nowhere had _really_ been spared. It was just nowhere near as devastating as Gaspard and the other border territories; the Dukedom, Empire, and later Kingdom having all laid claims to it. Ashe steps through the door -- thankfully still on its hinges -- and surveys the damage.  
  
Or he would. The inside of the house won’t need too much work. It’s dusty, yes, and worn, but he can make it work. He’s made his home in worse places. The most important task for now should be fixing the roof up; the fields can wait a little longer. He rolls his sleeves up and gets to work.

  
  


\-----

  
The week passes quickly in a haze of rebuilding. First the roof, then the rest of the house. Ivy is stripped from the outside, Ashe’s arms aching from hours of nonstop work. He finds himself wishing for even the most basic Fire magic and an image of Sylvain comes to mind, a small flame dancing in the palm of his hand as he lights the candles in their old war tent. But Sylvain isn’t here, and Ashe must do this alone. He toils from dawn until far beyond dusk, crashing into bed for a few small hours of sleep before waking once more. Perhaps in the future he’ll be woken by a rooster but for now, his only guide is the sun. There are no clocks here, no way to tell one hour from the other; all that matters is what he can do in a day.  
  
Repairing the house is a necessary first step, but Ashe knows he must soon begin to tend the fields. He starts to sort through the debris littering one of the fields: uniforms are burnt, chipped swords piled up to take to the blacksmith at the nearby village. Ashe says a silent prayer that he won’t find any personal belongings in there. There have already been so many he can’t return.  
  
Another week of ceaseless work and the fields are cleared and looking healthy. Ashe sighs contentedly as he surveys them, as a lord might do their territory. He has a plan for them -- what crops to plant, how to rotate them through the seasons. Once again Ashe finds himself indebted to Lonato. His knowledge of plant life had been vast, and the Castle library had been filled with books on gardening and horticulture. Ashe is sure whoever ends up living there won’t mind that a few have gone missing, or he hopes so at least. It seems fitting in a way. He would have never ended up living there if it wasn’t for trying to steal a book in the first place. Stealing one as he left brought his life there to a close.  
  
And closed it is. He can’t go back, not now.  
  
Ashe shakes his head and turns to walk back to the farmhouse. Thinking of his past is of no use to him now; he has to focus on the future.

  
  


\-----  
  


  
After two weeks or more in almost complete solitude, the small village seems almost overwhelming. A couple of traders call out to each other from their small stalls as a steady stream of people walk by. Ashe tries not to collide with anyone, apologising as he weaves his way through. The sack on his back is heavy and he prays he can find a blacksmith soon to rid himself of it.  
  
“Hey!”  
  
Ashe whips around. There’s a flash of panic; a reflex that never quite left him after his days of thievery.  
  
“You were the Lord’s son, yeah? Fought in the war?”  
  
“Yes. T-that’s me. Can I help you?”  
  
The man stood opposite is taller than Ashe (that isn’t difficult, a fact which still bothers him more than he’d like) but far skinnier. He seems to have suffered the worst of the famine created by the war. Ashe tries not to stare as the man goes on.  
  
“Then what are you doing in a place like this?! Thought they’d have given you the castle, somewhere fancy like. No need for you to get your hands dirty.”  
  
“Oh, well, I-”  
  
It feels strange to offload onto a stranger like this, someone he’s never met before this moment. That said, Ashe knows how fast gossip can spread. If he tells one person, he might be able to avoid constant questions. Maybe everyone in the village will know by the end of the day.  
_  
_ “I turned it down. I believe I can do more good outside of the Castle. I um, bought the farm north of here… there should be crops by next season.”  
  
The man raises an eyebrow, crosses his arms as he evaluates Ashe. All Ashe can do is stand there, shuffling from foot to foot, still awkward despite the years of being a soldier. He’s just about given up on finding the blacksmith any time soon when the man’s face erupts in a beaming grin.  
  
“Good luck to you! We could do with more farmers around here. We lost most of ‘em to the war.”  
  
He pats Ashe on the shoulder. Ashe barely feels it.  
  
“You used to be one of us, right? Common folk. I guess you found your way back.”  
  
He pats Ashe on the shoulder again before walking off. Ashe stands stock-still in the middle of the street, frozen for a moment. Had he really found his way back? Had he ever truly left, for that matter? Lonato had always treated Ashe and his siblings as if they were his own, but Ashe has never quite been sure if he did the same in return. Some things changed -- his accent, learning how to read, training to fight with a bow instead of with sharp nails and bony elbows -- but still the pieces of his old life had clung to him, as his time at Castle Gaspard does now.  
  
He shakes his head and adjusts the sack on his shoulder before setting off in search of the blacksmith once more.  
  


  
\-----  
  


Time moves differently on the farm. Days at the Academy seemed to stretch in an endless repetition of training, classes, cooking duty, and his years during the war passed in a blur, each day purely focused on survival. Now the days seem to be both -- a blur of repetitive, but satisfying, chores. He comes to forget how many days pass between his visits to the village; it hardly seems to matter anymore. The blacksmith greets him when he goes, and the other residents seem to be warming up to him. Ashe mentally thanks the man he’d spoken to; news of his change in path had spread quite quickly. The person he sees most is the messenger stationed there, whom he entrusts with letters for Fhirdiad. The first person he’d written to had been his siblings, careful to make sure they knew he hadn’t abandoned them. Both of them have busy lives in Fhirdiad now -- Afton as Ingrid’s squire, Avery at the School of Sorcery. They don’t need his protection as they once had but Ashe still worries about them. He supposes he always will. 

Later in the season, he finally finds the courage to write to Dedue. Ashe wonders if it’s wrong, to only contact him and not the rest of their old classmates-turned-allies but Dedue seems the most likely to understand. ...Though perhaps that’s only because he’s the one Ashe has always felt closest to. While his Noble classmates had always seemed somewhat out of reach, Dedue had been a steady presence during his time at the Academy. Ashe had counted every small piece of Dedue’s life that he felt comfortable sharing as a victory, a sign that the man trusted him enough to let him in. Knowing those parts of him, things that perhaps only Dimitri was privy to, made Ashe open up in turn and the two bonded over their shared grief, however different their circumstances. Now Ashe finds himself opening up once more, sharing with Dedue his reasons for leaving and more importantly his hopes for the future. He seals the letter and holds it up for a moment to dry, the setting sun casting a pink and yellow glow over the paper.  
  


  
\-----  
  


  
“Fhirdiad again, sonny?”  
  
Ashe looks up at the messenger, already on his horse. He’s a stout older fellow; Ashe wonders if he’d still be working if it wasn’t for the war. There might not be anyone to replace him.  
  
“Yes, please! Those two as usual and um, this one for the Castle.”  
  
“The Castle?! Alright, friends in high places.”  
  
He tucks them into his bag, along with a few gold coins in payment.  
  
“I suppose you'll have heard then? About the King.”  
  
Ashe’s heart drops. Dimitri can’t have died. The news would have travelled across not only the old Kingdom territories but Fódlan as a whole. Still, there are a myriad of troubles that could have befallen him. Becoming King did not rid Dimitri of his demons. It may have even made them worse somehow, but without being there in Fhirdiad, Ashe has no way of knowing-  
  
“Oy!”  
  
Ashe blinks out of his trance.  
  
“S-sorry! The King! Is everything alright with him?”  
  
His heart beats a tattoo in his chest as he waits for the messenger to reply.  
  
“He’s alive if that’s what you’re worrying for. Not well though, last I heard. He’s announced a speech for next week, must be something major as it’s being sent all across the country. It’ll make its way here too, don’t you worry. I’ll probably bring it myself.”  
  
_Alive is good,_ Ashe reminds himself. All other things can be fixed somehow, through healing or rest. The war has taught him that much.  
  
“Thank you for telling me. It might have been a shock to suddenly receive a copy with no warning. Have a safe journey!”  
  
Ashe leaves the village not long after, his heart too heavy to speak to many others.  
  


  
\-----  
  


  
He never does find a copy of that speech. Perhaps copies weren’t distributed as promised, or perhaps they simply didn’t make it as far as this small corner of Fódlan. Either way, life goes on. Dedue writes to him, tells him of the rebuilding efforts in Duscur, of life in Fhirdiad. It doesn’t escape Ashe’s notice that there is no mention of the King, though he tries to reason it away. Dedue has little time to himself between his various duties; that he would still write to Ashe at all is a blessing.

\-----

  
Ashe cuts his hair at the beginning of Harpstring Moon, the bangs that he’d once tolerated slipping into his face finally becoming too long to ignore. He holds off for as long as he can, memories of the first time he’d cut his hair coming to mind. He’d been much younger then, with a different name and no possessions but the clothes on his back. He’d sold his hair to a travelling merchant in exchange for enough silver to feed him and his siblings for a week. But that week had ended, as all good weeks do, and Ashe had found himself breaking into Castle Gaspard not long after. His short hair and baggy clothes had led Lonato to mistake Ashe for something he wasn’t, or at least someone he wasn’t yet. Even after he and his siblings had been adopted -- had found a family once more -- he hadn’t grown it out. It was perhaps the only way in which he didn’t try to emulate Christophe. Only after Ashe had grown taller, his features becoming sharper from age and training, rather than hunger, had he entertained it being longer.  
  
Ashe lingers, staring at his reflection in the mirror. For a moment he considers letting his hair grow out; it wouldn’t take so long until he could tie it back. He could style it like Christophe, tie the sides back to make sure it doesn’t bother him while working. He smiles at the memory of his brother's portrait. A portrait probably still hanging in the castle Ashe has refused to return to.  
  
No, he’ll cut his hair.  
  


His morning chores go by much quicker without the constant pushing back of hair from his face and he finally loses his excuse for not expanding the farm beyond a couple of fields of grain.  
  
The chicken coop is his first task. The barn will need fixing up, too, but Ashe can’t do that alone. He hopes he can find help in the village when the time comes, but the harvest is still a long while away.  
  
And he’ll need help. _  
_ _  
_ “SWEET SEIROS!”  
  
The nail falls to the ground as Ashe grabs his rapidly bruising finger. He’s not used to this kind of work at all, his quick hands made for tasks more delicate than carpentry. The planks of wood are heavy; manoeuvring them takes all his strength and he can’t help but wish that Dedue were here to help. Dimitri would of course be more than capable too, and probably eager to lend a hand, but Ashe can’t let himself imagine the King of United Fódlan pulling his weight on Ashe’s insignificant little farm. He can’t even imagine letting him visit. Ashe will have to return to the capital if he wants to see him again, but even just the idea of doing so is enough to make his heart begin to race. Perhaps in a year or two, he’ll make his way there, for Afton’s Knighting Ceremony, or Avery’s graduation.  
_  
_ He finishes the coop on a Tuesday -- he’d bought a calendar at last, a small wooden thing that lives above the mantelpiece -- just in time for the chickens to arrive that Wednesday. He’d offered to collect them himself, from the villager who sold them to him across the river, but she’d heard nothing of it, simply asking that Ashe remember her when harvest comes around. He will, her and her four children (she’d had six, but the war had- well, Ashe knew as well as any what happened in war). The chickens all huddle in the corner of their enclosure, feathers puffed up whenever he tries to approach them.  
  
“I guess you might be nervous. This is a new home for you after all, i-it might take a while to settle in! But I’ll take good care of you, there’s no need to worry about that.”  
  
Perhaps he’s silly, talking to them like this, but there’s nobody around to stop him. He places some scraps and a bucket of water on the far side of the enclosure before walking off to carry on with other chores. They might take a while to calm down and feel safe, but some extra food will probably help. Ashe knows it helped him, once upon a time. In the meantime, he can think of names for them.  
  


  
\-----  
  


  
The chickens settle in eventually. Ashe no longer has to check on them between every small task, worried that they might have escaped his more than questionable building attempt. He feeds them scraps mostly, leftovers from the small vegetable patch by the door. The fields need more time to grow, but Ashe had planted some faster-growing crops for himself, eager to not be completely reliant on the market. The herb garden is flourishing too, with all manner of plants, both medicinal and culinary. He hadn’t noticed the familiar pattern to his planting at first, the rows organised in a very particular manner. He’d assumed it was automatic, muscle memory from his time in the greenhouse at Garreg Mach; but Ashe knows deep down that he’d known this far longer, that he’d been the one to bring this style to the Monastery. He’d replanted in this formation for years, listened intently as Lonato taught him the difference between Leicester Sage and Desert Sage, which ones could cure a fever, and which ones simply tasted good in a pie. Ashe wonders if Lonato would be proud of him and this small garden. He decides it’s best not to think about it.  
  
The end of the month comes with no word from Dedue. Ashe knows he’s probably busy -- he might even be in Duscur again -- but he can’t help but fret slightly. Dedue is more than capable of looking after himself, but Fódlan is still not fully recovered from war. He can only imagine how many bandits lie in wait to ambush the King’s Right Hand on the way to Duscur, or how Dedue would jump in front of any assassin that tried to get close to Dimitri. He doesn’t realise quite how worried he’s become until Dedue begins seeping into his dreams. It isn’t the first time he’s appeared there, though Ashe would be far too ashamed to admit the content of any of his dreams back at the academy. But these are different, gone is the adolescent yearning, his vivid imagination now conjuring up a far different kind of image, one shaped by the horrors he’s seen these past years. He wakes breathless and shaking night after night until he’s almost ready to ride out to Fhirdiad, just to make sure Dedue is still alive.  
  
He doesn’t go to Fhirdiad. He can’t leave the farm, especially not now that he has the chickens to look after. Ashe is sure he could ask one of his neighbours (a loose term, given the distance between him and the next house) to look after them in an emergency, but he’d rather not add to their work. So he carries on, works himself to exhaustion during the day in the hopes he’ll be able to sleep through the night. More often than not it’s a false hope.  
  


  
\-----  
  


  
Garland Moon is a joyous time, even far away from the bigger cities. Festivals are different here, the traditions ones Ashe only vaguely remembers from his childhood. Ashe wanders through the village, smiling as he sees garlands being exchanged between shy teenagers confessing their first love. Ashe had once been one of them, nervously weaving flowers together in the corner of the greenhouse, though his time at the Academy is now far behind him. He’d told Dedue that it was a symbol of their friendship. He wishes he hadn’t been such a coward. Ashe feels a sudden pang of jealousy towards the happy couples that quickly transforms into an overwhelming loneliness, threatening to drag him down. He looks around, willing himself to find a distraction. He finds one quickly, his eyes narrowing slightly in confusion as he turns to a flower stall owner who sits perched on a high stool.  
  
“E-excuse me, I was wondering if you could tell me -- I seem to have forgotten-”  
  
She nods at him with a kind smile, encouraging him to continue.  
  
“Why are there branches hanging on all the doors?”  
  
The stall owner barks out a laugh and leans over to pat him on the shoulder in a way that instantly makes him feel like a clueless child again. Ashe wonders if she has children of her own, or even grandchildren.  
  
“The hawthorn? It’s for luck in the year to come. New growth and prosperity to all. I’m not surprised you didn’t know, it’s not so common more north from here anymore. The Church didn’t think much of the old traditions. I’ll tell you what though, you can take this. You deserve some luck, same as the rest of us.”  
  
He has the distinct feeling of being lost again in a place he thought he knew well. Has he found his way back, as the villager had told him? Ashe still isn’t sure he ever left, though he has no real memory of ever honouring these traditions. His memories from his life with his parents are vague, brief snippets all he has to remember from the years they spent together. There were no flowers then, or in the years after.  
  
The stall owner holds out a branch to him, small white flowers covering green leaves. Ashe immediately pulls a few gold from his purse and tries to ignore the stern look on her face.  
  
“Thank you! Though I can’t take it for free, it wouldn’t be right. I’ll make sure to visit you next year too.”  
  
To Ashe's relief, she takes the money. While he could have slipped it into her pocket without her noticing, he’d rather not have to. Another round of thanks and a quick goodbye and Ashe is on his way to the message post. There’s still no letter for him from Dedue. He decides to head home.  
  
Ashe’s eyesight has always been extraordinarily good. It kept him safe during his time living on the streets, keeping watch while the older children snuck into shops. Later, it kept him and his allies safe in battle, spying threats from miles away. He doesn’t need it for that anymore, something Ashe can only be thankful for, but it does still have its uses. Even from far down the road Ashe can see a figure leant against his wall. They’re tall, and broad too, far larger than Ashe’s slight frame. Nobody he knows around here looks like that; nobody _could_ look like that, not after years of lean harvests and looting. Ashe pulls the knife from his boot and slips over the wall to sneak through the field. The figure doesn’t move, seemingly content to wait patiently. He moves closer, taking care to stay light on his feet, a lifetime’s worth of practice coming to his aid. There’s a couple of travelling bags propped up over the wall; Ashe wonders just who would come here to visit before he looks up and sees-  
  
“ _Dedue?”_ _  
__  
_ His voice is quiet, almost a whisper. Ashe no longer attempts to stay hidden, hurrying towards his friend as quickly as he can. His heart beats fast in his chest, an unbreakable smile on his face.  
  
“Dedue! Over here!”  
  
Dedue pushes himself off the wall and turns towards him, and Ashe swears he can see the hint of a smile on his face. He’d imagined reuniting like this, daydreamed about it while dragging himself through the hardest days on the farm, but Ashe knows this won’t play out the same way. He stops a few paces short of Dedue, forcing his hands to stay by his side, no matter how deeply he wants to reach out and hug him tight. His hair is even longer than the last time Ashe had seen him, tied in a long plait draped over one shoulder. His clothes are simple -- none of the symbols of his station, the brooch he wears, his furred cape. Perhaps it had been too warm on the road for such things, now Winter is behind them, though that wouldn’t explain the missing brooch. But there isn't time to dwell on it.

“I apologise for arriving while you were away, and without warning. I must compliment you though, this wall is quite comfortable.”  
  
Ashe can’t stop himself from giggling. He’s missed Dedue’s quiet sense of humour. He’s missed all of Dedue. _  
__  
_ “What are you doing here? I thought you’d be in Fhirdiad!-- o-or Duscur, or somewhere else being busy!”  
  
Dedue opens his mouth to reply but Ashe cuts him off with a yelp.  
  
“Saints, look at me! What an awful host I am. Please, come inside! I’ll make us some tea and you can sit down somewhere that isn’t a wall.”  
  
Dedue looks down with a fond smile on his face, the kind that means far more to Ashe than it probably should, before collecting his bags and following Ashe inside.  
  
When Ashe had first inquired about the farm, the house had been described as 'very rustic' and 'in need of some repair.' He’d quickly found that didn’t describe half of what had needed fixing in it. He’s done his best -- the house is secure and certainly liveable enough now -- but it’s a far cry from Fhirdiad palace or even the house Dedue had described living in during his time in Duscur. Ashe sits Dedue down at the table, praying he doesn’t notice the book propped under an uneven leg, and goes to light the stove, hands trembling slightly as he strikes the match.  
  
“I um, I don’t have your favourite, I’m sorry.” Ashe laughs nervously. “I wasn’t expecting guests, especially not so soon. I have plenty of mint, oh!- and chamomile, if that’s alright?”  
  
Dedue has rolled his sleeves up, his arms flexing as he leans on the table. 

“I would prefer to avoid chamomile for a while. It has become too familiar to me. I am sure I will enjoy the mint.”  
  
Ashe opens his mouth to make a comment about Dimitri’s favourite tea but thinks better of it. Between the recent news -- or rather, lack of news -- from Fhirdiad and Dedue’s sudden appearance at the farm, there must be something more going on. Dedue is a private man, but this seems like something beyond his usual way of being. The way he seems to have trouble staying still, the small glances around the room; he almost seems nervous. Ashe can’t force Dedue to talk about it, but he can try at least.  
  
“I’m surprised you had time to visit! I thought your work would have trapped you in Fhirdiad much longer. Did you um, manage to ask for a break?”  
  
A silly question; Dedue has never asked for a break in his life. Ashe knows he’d work all hours of the day if given the choice, single-handedly rebuilding Duscur one brick at a time. He watches as Dedue’s expression tightens for a moment. Dedue has always taken his time to reply; Ashe knows he’d had to consider every word carefully during his time at the Palace and then the Academy. Still, it saddens him slightly that Dedue feels he can’t speak freely with him, not for his own sake, but for Dedue’s.  
  
“I am… not required in Fhirdiad at present.”  
  
Dedue seems to consider saying more for a brief moment, before snapping his mouth shut. Ashe tries to hide his concern behind his mug of tea, but he’s sure Dedue will still be able to tell. Thoughts spring to mind -- nobles willing to take out their personal prejudice on the one closest to the King; or perhaps some sort of plot, Dedue leaving in shame after failing to defend Dimitri properly; or… had he and Dimitri had a disagreement somehow? Ashe can scarcely imagine it; the two have always been almost inseparable, even through Dimitri’s worst time. He can’t ask though, can’t bear to watch Dedue crumble. He puts the mug down on the table with a little more force than expected and a couple of droplets spill over and slide down the outside onto the threadbare tablecloth.  
  
“Oh! Well… you’re welcome to stay here for as long as you like. It’s not much, as you can see, and I might need to ask for your help with a few things and…”  
  
Ashe’s hands are suddenly embraced by a much larger set. He manages not to gasp, but he does stutter, his words coming to a halt as he tries to remember just what he was saying before Dedue startled him like this. He doesn’t need to say more though, Dedue replying before Ashe can apologise for the state of anything else in the house.  
  
“Thank you, Ashe. I would not expect to live here and not aid you in the farm’s upkeep. I will help with what you need.” There’s a hint of a smile again, a sight which lifts Ashe’s heart before he adds, “And I appreciate the… more humble surroundings. It is a welcome change from my previous quarters.”  
  
“I’m glad to hear it!”  
  
He’ll be able to get that barn up with Dedue’s help, though that can wait a while. He does have an immediate job for them both though, one that might keep Dedue’s mind away from more troubling thoughts. Ashe picks up the hawthorn branch and begins to search for a hammer.  
  
“Dedue, would you mind helping me with this, please?  
  


Ashe hopes it will bring fortune to them both.  
  


  
\-----

  
The morning brings a dilemma. Ashe has mostly done away with wearing the tight undershirt that had been a necessity in his youth. Here on the farm, with nobody around, there’s little need to hide his chest. He needs all the energy he has to get through his chores each day and having something restricting his breathing constantly would only make it more difficult. The war had been a true trial of his endurance; more than once Ashe had been convinced he’d suffocate before any enemy troops could ever get near him. There’s no desire to feel that way ever again. So he wears it to market, or when visiting others, but never to work in.  
  
Dedue arriving will change that. Or might change that; Ashe is still unsure as he stares at the chair piled high with clothes in the corner of the room. He doubts Dedue will take issue with him -- after all, he’d been close with Dimitri for many years and had never said anything to make Ashe doubt the respect he has for their King -- but there’s still a tiny speck of worry. Ashe is sure his classmates at the Academy had had their suspicions at least, but he’d never told anyone. He’d thought about it, once or twice, during a quiet moment in the library, careless thoughts of telling Dedue, confessing everything he’d kept to himself before being swept up in Dedue’s arms.  
  
He has to stop daydreaming.  
  
He makes a flash decision and grabs his usual shirt, leaving the undershirt on the chair. He attempts to tuck it in as he walks to the stairs; it’s a haphazard attempt, but his hands are trembling too much to do a better job. The top stair creaks as it always does, probably alerting Dedue to his presence. There’s still time to hide, to run back to his room and change but he won’t give in, however enticing it might feel. He’s faced down armies, seen truly terrible things; nothing Dedue can do will compare.  
  
And then Ashe sees him. Dedue is stood by the stove, trousers rolled up slightly, a baggier shirt than he’d been wearing the night before hanging loose, even on his large frame. He sets the kettle down to heat up and turns towards Ashe and-  
  
Oh.  
  
Ashe hadn’t known. There was no way he could have known, not when Dedue had always been as private as himself. He’s tall, so tall, and stronger than Ashe could ever hope to be, his voice deep and warm and resonant. And yet, in this, they are the same. Emotions flood his senses-- relief, joy, and one he can’t even put a name to, the feeling of knowing someone else understands and knows and _is._ _  
_ _  
_ The stair creaks again. Dedue looks at him, his eyes narrowing for just a moment. Ashe stares back, any words he thinks to speak dying in the back of his throat. It’s quiet, the only sound the slight sputtering of the stove. He finally finds the words to speak, just as Dedue seems to as well.  
  
“Would you-”

  
“I-”  
  
Ashe shakes his head, his easy smile returning.  
  
“I’m sorry, Dedue, please go ahead!”  
  
Dedue nods, looking up at him for a moment with an expression Ashe can’t quite place.  
  
“I was going to ask if you would like some breakfast.”  
  
The kettle whistles. Ashe stumbles down the stairs.  
  


  
\-----

  
Dedue sleeps in the kitchen. There’s only one bedroom in the house and while Ashe had immediately offered Dedue the bed, he’d insisted that Ashe keep it. Ashe had thought he might change his mind after the first night, but Dedue doesn’t waver. He sleeps in the giant armchair by the fire, a pile of blankets wrapped around him. He’s always awake when Ashe stirs and wanders bleary-eyed down the stairs. Often there’s a pot of tea already made, sometimes some fresh bread or porridge, and while Ashe is thankful for the feeling of domesticity he hates to think how early Dedue must have woken to prepare it all.  
  
He brings it up one evening as they sit by the fire. Faerghus is still chilly in late spring, even this far south, and Ashe and Dedue both have blankets around their shoulders, their bodies weary from a hard day’s work. Ashe observes Dedue for a moment; he looks tired in a way even he cannot hide completely. Dark circles shadow his eyes, the sort he hasn’t seen anyone sport since the war. His hair is braided as usual, but the sides have grown out significantly. They stick straight out, almost as if Dedue has been hit by an errant Thunder spell. In short, his friend looks, in the kindest way Ashe can describe it, _exhausted._ _  
_ _  
_ “Have you been sleeping well, being down here in the kitchen? I- I know it can’t be the most comfortable place to rest.”  
  
He looks away from Dedue and back to the fire as if avoiding his gaze will avoid any potential awkwardness.  
  
“I have slept adequately. We have both made our bed in far worse places.”  
  
The fire flickers as Ashe considers his response, the firewood Dedue had chopped for them crackling as it turns to ash. He doesn’t want to offend Dedue, to say something that might drive him away and back to Fhirdiad, but Ashe can’t continue to see him suffer in silence like this. He knows Dedue has the strength to endure all manner of things, has often had no choice but to, but he shouldn’t have to, not anymore. But Ashe still doubts he’d be able to convince Dedue that he should take the bed for his own benefit. He'll have to consider a different track.  
  
“I’m glad to hear it. The chair must work better than the bed then…”  
  
He stares at the floor, at the flecks of mud that have made their way onto the rug, despite his best efforts to keep things clean. There’s a moment of silence, a slight tension in the air. Nothing sinister, but an emptiness nonetheless that Ashe can’t stand. He has to speak again before this drags on any longer.

“Would you… I don’t sleep well. I um, I think I got too used to sleeping in tents during the war. Even this old mattress seems like a luxury! S-so I was thinking that maybe, um…”  
  
Ashe turns to Dedue, a pink blush rising on his cheeks, only to see that Dedue is already looking at him, his eyes gleaming.  
  
“Would you prefer to share the bed?”  
  
_Thank the Goddess._ Or rather, thank Dedue. Ashe doesn’t have to dance around the topic any further.  
  
“If it isn’t any trouble. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable! B-but perhaps it might be good for both of us.” He runs a hand along the patched-up, scratchy fabric of the armchair. “The bed is comfier and I don’t take up a lot of room.”  
  
“Then we will both sleep in the bed. We should probably already be there. The day has been long, and the fire is almost burnt out.”  
  
Ashe agrees, perhaps a little too hurriedly, and moves to extinguish the fire.  
  


  
\-----  
  


  
Ashe doesn’t sleep any better. In fact, he sleeps a lot worse. He had thought he might for a while -- while he tries to keep his thoughts of Dedue chaste, he cannot control his dreams in the same manner, and the idea of thinking of his friend in such a way as he sleeps next to him feels like a betrayal. Having such thoughts during the chaos of war, while surrounded by death and destruction didn’t seem like such a sin; all of them had been desperate for anything to bring them a moment or two of respite. Now though, far removed from it all, Ashe cannot allow himself to indulge in the same way.  
  
In the end, he doesn’t have to confront those desires, which he would be thankful for if it wasn’t for the circumstances. Dedue doesn’t sleep, or he doesn’t seem to at least. He lies still, slows his breathing as if to suggest to Ashe that he’s found rest, but Ashe can feel how tense Dedue is, even while trying to keep his distance. (A feat which is quite hard to achieve, given the size of the bed and Dedue’s stature.) There are no nightmares, at least none that wake Ashe in the middle of the night, but he’s almost at the point of wishing that Dedue would wake him in a fit of panic. Anything would be preferable to Dedue enduring this alone.  
  
There’s a slight selfishness to his worry-- the desire to hold Dedue close, to comfort him always present in the back of his mind. It slips into his dreams; _there he unties Dedue’s hair, untangles it as he leans up to place a kiss on his forehead. He lays him down on soft pillows, sings to him as they both drift off together._ _  
__  
_ Those things will stay in Ashe’s imagination, but he will find a way to help Dedue; he has to. Ashe considers asking Dedue if he wants to return to Fhirdiad, to the comforts of the Palace; but given his tendency to freeze up whenever Fhirdiad or the King are mentioned, Ashe thinks better of it. That too, is a mystery for another day.  
  
It comes to a head not long after. The chicken coop falls apart, Ashe’s feeble attempts at carpentry failing before even a season has passed. What follows is an exhausting day of chasing chickens, sourcing new wood-- using scraps of timber had been his first mistake, he learns, they’d been rotten without him realising it-- and rebuilding. By dinnertime, it’s all either of them can do to keep their eyes open and their heads from falling into a soft pillow of mashed potatoes. They leave the dirty plates in the sink, something Ashe knows he’ll be horrified by in the morning, and struggle up the stairs slowly as if their socks had been dipped in treacle. Dedue is already in bed by the time Ashe returns from the bathroom so he blows out the candle before walking to the bed.  
  
It shouldn’t have been a difficult task, the same few steps he makes every night. When he steps next to the bed, however, his foot hits something metallic. Pain radiates through his foot and he staggers back, hands hitting the windowsill behind to keep his balance.  
  
“What the?!”  
  
Dedue springs up in bed, immediately alert.  
  
“Ashe, are you hurt? You sounded in pain.”  
  
Ashe doesn’t immediately reply, too focused on finding out exactly what his foot had struck. He doesn’t store anything under the bed, aside from a couple of thicker winter blankets which currently reside by the armchair downstairs; there certainly shouldn’t be anything metal, especially not-  
  
“An axe? Dedue, is this yours? These patterns on the handle, it must be… Why did you put this here?”  
  
Silence. Moonlight streams through the curtains, illuminating Dedue’s broad frame. Ashe stays kneeling by the bed, one hand running across the engravings on the handle. Dedue had told him the word for them in the Duscur language, symbols for protection and good luck, but Ashe can’t recall it right now. The pain in his foot has dimmed and with it, his urge to snap at the figure in his bed. _Their bed._ He eventually rises from the floor, his knees creaking as a reminder that he isn’t as young as he used to be. 

“There should be space for it in the kitchen. I keep my axe there too, we can hang them together!”  
  
Silence again, though this time Dedue eventually answers.  
  
“I would rather keep it here, if that does not trouble you.”  
  
“Why w-”  
  
Ashe stops himself. Dedue had told him once of Duscur, of how he had lived before everything and everyone was burnt to ash. His voice had wavered then, as Ashe had never heard it before; a slight crack in Dedue’s otherwise impenetrable armour. Ashe wonders if he had always kept an axe close after coming to Faerghus. No doubt there had been those in the Palace who would rather have seen him dead, and by the time Ashe met him, he’d sworn his life to protect Dimitri at all costs. Habits are hard to break; the knife under his own pillow and the one in his boot all the proof Ashe needs of that. After everything Dedue has been through, an axe under the bed seems like a minor adjustment to Ashe’s life here.  
  
“It’s alright, we’ll keep it there. It might come in useful! Maybe.”  
  
Ashe slips into bed beside Dedue and watches as he finally relaxes once more, the tension leaving his shoulders. He waits for Dedue to lie down before sliding under the covers too. He turns towards Dedue, startled slightly at the realisation that Dedue is looking back at him. He knows he must be blushing and can only be thankful for the darkness of the room hiding his indiscretion. They stay like that, not quite meeting each others’ gaze, neither turning away to sleep for a minute, or perhaps twenty. Ashe isn’t sure; the only thing that matters is Dedue’s breathing becoming slow and steady once more. A piece of hair has escaped Dedue’s braid, falling over one eye. Ashe clenches his fist to stop himself from reaching out to tuck it back behind his ear. Those small gestures are the most dangerous; Ashe knows once he’s begun he won’t be able to stop himself, deluding himself that it would all be to look after Dedue and not his own selfish heart.  
  
“My sister used to keep her axe in the kitchen, next to the stove. My mother would scold her for it, but she never changed.”

  
Ashe is afraid to answer, scared that anything he says might deter Dedue from speaking further. He’s scarcely aware that he’s holding his breath, only breathing out when Dedue begins to talk once more.  
  
“She was...wild. When not at the family forge she would usually be found brawling with the other apprentices in town.” Dedue pauses for a moment, his voice thick with emotion. “We were quite different, but she cared for me all the same, even when I showed I did not possess the same talent for smithing as she.”  
  
Any tiredness Ashe might have felt before is gone, his desire to take in every word Dedue shares overriding anything else he might feel. He watches as the corners of Dedue’s mouth curl up for a moment, only to drop as he begins to speak once more. It’s a gesture Ashe knows well. He wishes he didn’t.  
  
“When the fires came to the village, when Faerghus’ soldiers came to our village, they…” Dedue pauses again, trying to maintain his stony facade. It’s agony to watch and not do anything; Ashe can’t not give him some form of comfort, however selfish it might feel. He slowly brings his hand to hold Dedue’s, stroking his thumb across the scarred knuckles.

“I would like to keep my axe close.”  
  
Ashe squeezes Dedue’s hand, silent for a moment as he tries to fathom how to reply. Nothing he says can right the wrongs that have been done to him, nor can he magically remove the anger and pain from Dedue’s heart. If he could, he’d have done the same for himself a long time ago. All he can do is be there to listen and to try and understand. Ashe hopes that will be enough.  
  
“I’m so sorry Dedue, I’m sure she was a wonderful person. I... I know it isn’t easy to talk about the people you’ve lost. It doesn’t seem to get any easier with time so- What I’m trying to say is, thank you for telling me about her. I’m sure she’d be very proud of you.”  
  
He looks to Dedue, eyes wide in earnestness, and patiently waits for a reply. They have an early start, as they do every morning, but he’d rather drag himself through a sleepless dirge of a day than miss anything Dedue might want to say. Ashe knows there are very few people who have taken the time to listen to him over the long years spent in Faerghus; there might only have been one, and given Dedue’s behaviour, Ashe isn’t sure if Dedue even has him anymore. He isn’t even sure if it matters to Dedue so much, whether being forced to stay stoic and unbothered all these years has conditioned him to not need someone to listen. Perhaps someday Dedue will tell him, but if he doesn’t, Ashe won’t mind. He’ll never force Dedue to speak of such horrific things.  
  
“She was. Perhaps I shall tell you more about her another time when it is not so late.”  
  
Nothing more is said between them, but Ashe doesn't turn away to try and sleep. When he wakes the next morning with Dedue's arms wrapped around him, he doesn't mention it. 

  
  


\-----  
  


  
The month wears on. Ashe finds himself waking before Dedue some days, the sun rising earlier and earlier as the weeks go on. They make breakfast together, Dedue listening intently as Ashe explains yet another way to cook potatoes in-between yawns. There’s an easiness between them now-- their feet brushing under the tiny kitchen table, sharing a blanket by the fire in the evenings. Ashe finds his mind no longer wanders much further; perhaps there’s no longer a need to when he already has so much of what he longed for. It may never be exactly as he’d hoped, but it doesn’t have to be. Dreams can stay as dreams; he can be content without them.  
  
On Dedue’s request, they add two goats to the farm. Ashe can’t miss the way Dedue’s eyes light up as another farmer drops them off from the market, though he seems to keep his distance at first, with the excuse that animals tend to be wary of him. Ashe knows this to be false; the chickens don’t mind Dedue at all. Chickens and goats are a far cry from warhorses, and they seem to take to Dedue much better. Or, as Ashe suspects, Dedue takes much better to them. He stands by the fence and watches as Dedue makes sure their pen is secure, the goats watching and occasionally butting him as he checks the posts.  
  
Eventually, he stands, brushing the mud off his trousers.  
  
“Have you chosen their names?”  
  
Ashe looks back at Dedue, confused.  
  
“Me?! Oh, I thought we could choose them together, or well, that you could name them. You know more about them after all.”  
  
The fence post he’s leaning on lurches forward as he waits for Dedue to reply. Ashe quickly jumps back and rights it, sighing at his own clumsiness.  
  
“Would you permit me to name the chickens? I can also name the goats, but I would like it if we both contributed. I believe you can think of something fitting.”  
  
Ashe hadn’t even considered naming the new chickens they had purchased; they had entirely been Dedue’s idea. He’s sure anything Dedue thinks of will be more fitting than the names their current chickens have, all pulled from Ashe’s favourite tales. He leans on the fence, more carefully this time as he watches the goats who are nosing around the edge of the pen. He has to pick something perfect, something fitting, just as Dedue had said.  
  
“Maybe…”  
  
His old wyvern comes to mind. He’d named her in a rush, Professor Byleth telling him he should think of something, staring at him in their usual disconcerting manner, giving away nothing of their thoughts. He’d blurted out ‘Primrose!’, after the flowers he and Dedue had planted the day before, and the name had stuck. Primrose lives at Garreg Mach now, her days much calmer than they had been with Ashe. He remembers the flowers that grew around his old home, the dark stone of the castle contrasting with their vibrant blooms.  
  
“Poppy and Violet!”  
  
There’s a moment of silence in which Ashe wonders just how bad his choice is, before Dedue nods and walks towards the gate.  
  
“Strong names. They suit them well.”  
  
It isn’t until Ashe sees him smile that he realises Dedue might not have been entirely serious.  
  
Any idea that Dedue had been serious about naming the animals goes out the window the next day. Three Silkie chickens peck about the now larger chicken coop, their fluffy feathers covering even their heads, making them look like a series of furred pom-poms stuck together.  
  
“I- I’m sorry Dedue, could you say that again?”

  
“Ladies Gwendolen, Eugenie, and Guinevere.”  
  
Right. Ashe hadn’t misheard him. The chicken now known as Lady Eugenie runs across the coop, squawking noisily.

“They’re nice names. Very um, very fancy. For chickens.”  
  
“They reminded me of the noble ladies who used to visit Fhirdiad.” Ashe turns to Dedue, sure that he looks as bemused as he feels. “Always overdressed in furs, even in summer. I only hope they are more polite than their namesakes.”  
  
Ashe snorts. A snort turns into a giggle as he looks back at the chickens and yes, he can see it clearly now. The same ladies, always minor nobles from whom he used to be able to swipe a coin or two, or sometimes a stray bracelet. Always eager to impress, but falling short, a caricature of what everyone he knew as a child thought of nobility. He imagines Dedue had seen them much the same way, and only hopes none of them were ever too unkind towards him.  
  
Then again, what perfect revenge.  
  
“I hope they’re nicer too! They already seem to be getting along with the others, so there’s hope.”  
  
He wonders what their other friends would think of it all. No doubt Sylvain would find it amusing; he can almost hear Annette’s melodic laughter. Would Dimitri laugh too? Ashe remembers him enjoying awful jokes, making them even worse by retelling them poorly over dinner. He’d always stood up for Dedue too, against such judgemental people. Ashe hopes it might make him smile if he ever hears about them.  
  
A second passes, and then his stomach drops. He still doesn’t know how Dimitri is; no more news has come their way since the messenger months ago. He wants to ask Dedue, but Dedue seems so closed off about it all, still reluctant to talk about his reasons for leaving past single sentences. All Ashe can do is hope and be patient.  
  
And perhaps send a letter to Fhirdiad of his own.  
  


\-----

  
  


In the end, Ashe doesn’t need to ask for news from Fhirdiad; it arrives on their door itself. The messenger-- a woman of about his age; Ashe wonders if the older man has been able to finally retire-- drops off a large parcel one morning. It’s addressed to Dedue, not himself, and while it isn’t much of a surprise, his heart still drops slightly. He still hasn’t told all their friends of his new life, though the Gaspard territory address Dedue now uses should be clue enough as to who he’s residing with. No outsider would willingly move to such a place, not unless they found themselves truly desperate. Still, Ashe wonders if his King would write to him, even if he found the time.  
  
The letter must be from Dimitri. One look at Dedue’s reaction to it is all Ashe needs to know that for sure. He watches as Dedue reads a small note on top of the pile of papers, wrapped tightly with string, and sees his expression darken for a moment.  
  
“That looks like a lot to read. I can do our afternoon chores by myself if you’d like to make a start. It’s easier to read now when the light is good.”  
  
Dedue finally looks away from the note, folding it neatly into his trouser pocket. The stack of papers looks large, even in his hands.  
  
“I would appreciate that, if you are able to work alone without trouble. Do not hesitate to ask for help if you need it.”  
  
Always considerate, even when faced with a momentous task of his own. Ashe can’t help but smile in return.  
  
“Don’t worry, I won’t try to raise a barn by myself! Besides, I was doing this alone before you joined me; it um, just takes a lot longer without you.”  
  
As an afterthought before he steps out into the yard, he adds, “And please don’t make dinner by yourself to make up for it! I want to learn how to cook lamb the way you do.”

  
Dedue does teach him, but that’s all that can be said about their meal that evening. He goes through the steps, patiently waiting for Ashe to catch up, but the way he looks almost reminds Ashe of their old Professor. Dead-eyed, calm, but with so much hidden behind one-word answers. It doesn’t suit Dedue; he may be a man of few words but every word is said with care and purpose. Whatever was in those papers has shaken him, and that has Ashe worried. The lamb is seasoned to perfection, but the taste dulls in his mouth every time he looks at Dedue, becoming almost metallic.

He’s left alone as soon as they finish washing the plates, Dedue retiring to the rickety desk pushed to the corner of the bedroom to finish reading whatever report he’s received. Ashe sits in the old armchair and for the first time in a long while, he reads. It’s a thin volume, pocket-sized, the cover fraying and the gold title fading. _Loog and the Mage of the Marsh;_ a much less popular tale than some of Ashe’s other books, but it had been Christophe’s favourite all the same. Ashe flicks to the middle of the book-- there’s no need to keep a bookmark here for him to find it again.  
  
_And so they looked. For days and days, Loog and Kyphon searched the marshes, hoping to find a trace of their old friend but none was to be found._ _  
_ _  
_ _“I cannot believe that one so powerful could have fallen in such a place.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _Kyphon stood behind Loog as he knelt in the grass, keeping watch as always over his King._ _  
_ _  
_ The ceiling creaks, bringing Ashe back to reality for a moment. Dedue seems to be pacing. He closes the book, placing it on the armrest. He knows how it finishes, after all, the two of them leaving the marsh without their beloved friend, vowing to make sure his name goes down in history. But Pan didn’t go down in history, all but forgotten outside of this small book and the barest of facts.  
  
He wonders if anyone will write books about the Blue Lions and their heroic deeds.  
  
He wonders if he too, will end up like Pan.  
  
The pacing stops. Ashe hears the chair move; there’s no scrape against the floorboards, just a gentle thud. He decides to ask Dedue about everything before they sleep.

Deciding to ask turns out to be much easier than actually asking. The sun eventually sets, its pinky-orange hue lighting up the plain white walls of the kitchen. Ashe sets the kettle on the stove and sets about making a pot of mint tea. Chamomile would be more traditional, given the hour, but it doesn’t seem right, given Dedue’s unease. There’s a couple of spiced buns left from baking earlier in the week and Ashe adds them to the tray, hoping Dedue won’t mind the lack of butter. The day before market is always a little lean. He softly climbs the stairs and knocks to announce his arrival.  
  
“Dedue? Are you still working? It’s um, it’s getting quite late.”  
  
Dedue is still sat at the desk. As Ashe approaches he can see the pile of papers stacked on one side of the desk; a blank piece of parchment sits in front of Dedue, no pencil to be seen. Dedue turns and stands, lifting the chair back under the desk, taking care not to scratch the floorboards.  
  
“You did not have to bring tea. Nevertheless, I thank you.”  
  
“Please, it’s okay. I wanted some too and well, it’s getting late…”  
  
Ashe looks back to the desk and the empty piece of parchment. He hopes Dedue wasn’t staring at it for too long.  
  
“We can sit on the bed, just this once. I know we usually eat downstairs but it’s okay to break the rules sometimes!”  
  
The tray wobbles slightly as he sets it down on the bed. Ashe tries to push down the thought of the teapot tipping over, of finding crumbs in the bed for days after. Dedue hesitates to join him, eventually settling on the corner of the bed.  
  
“I am not sure this is a good idea. We should move elsewhere.”  
  
There’s a frustration bubbling up in Ashe, one he knows isn’t fair on Dedue but that threatens to overcome him if he doesn’t say something. It’s the same feeling he had watching Dimitri in the cathedral, all those years ago. Unable to help, unable to do anything but watch someone he cares for so deeply be in pain. He can’t lose anyone else like this, can’t watch someone else keep their pain to themselves for so long, locking Ashe out until things have gone past the point of no return and-  
  
“Ashe? Are you alright?”  
  
He knows this is different from what happened with Lonato, and with Dimitri for that matter. And yet, the same worry remains. It is selfish of him, to expect Dedue to speak of what troubles him, but perhaps he needs to be selfish for once.  
  
“Fine! Sorry, I’m alright, it’s just-” He pours the tea, grateful to have something to stop his hands from shaking. They’d never trembled during battle, not through all the long years of war; he supposes it’s a symptom of having too much time to think, of being able to look beyond simply surviving tomorrow. “What was in the parcel? It looked official. Is everything okay in Fhirdiad?”  
  
He could have phrased it better, hidden his concern behind curiosity, but Dedue would have known his true intentions regardless. Sylvain had told Ashe once that he wore his heart on his sleeve, and he’s sure he still does.  
  
“It was a report from Duscur. D- His Majesty wanted to inform me of everything, despite my absence from his side.”  
  
There’s an undercurrent of bitterness to his words, so slight most would miss it. Ashe has heard it before, in the greenhouse as Dedue would tell him about Duscur, of the plants that used to grow there before it became a barren, ash-covered land. The news might be poor then. Perhaps another issue with House Kleiman; Ashe hadn’t had to pay much attention while still living in Fhirdiad to hear of their discontent. He’d hoped that three years into Dimitri’s reign such things would be long dealt with, but peace takes a lot longer to achieve than in any of Ashe’s books.  
  
“That’s kind of him! He must miss you being there. Is- is the rebuilding going w-”  
  
There’s a _clink_ as Dedue places his mug on the floor. He unrolls his sleeves, not catching Ashe’s eye as he responds in a way Ashe couldn’t have predicted.  
  
“If His Majesty were truly in need of my assistance he would not have sent me away from Fhirdiad. I am of no use to him here.”  
  
Dimitri had sent Dedue away? Ashe’s heart sinks. No wonder Dedue had seemed so closed off about everything-- to be asked to leave must have been a true blow after everything he and Dimitri had been through together. Ideas on what might have caused Dimitri to do such a thing race through his mind, some far more probable than others, but they all seem to lead back to a worry about their King and his tendency to isolate himself. He once again thinks of the Cathedral, Dimitri standing alone amongst the rubble.  
  
But Dimitri isn’t here. He's far away in Fhirdiad, still surrounded by friends and advisors. Dedue is here, alone aside from Ashe and hurting. Ashe directs his thoughts away from things he cannot change, to those he can.  
  
“Dedue, I… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. We can talk about something else, or go to bed.”  
  
“The rebuilding is going well.” Dedue sighs and for a moment looks smaller than Ashe has ever seen him before. “Trade routes are established. Crops have been planted. People once scattered across the continent are returning. And yet, it does not feel real.”  
  
Ashe doesn’t speak but moves closer to Dedue, still perched on a corner of the mattress. His tea lies forgotten on the bedside table.  
  
“His Majesty has fulfilled his promise to myself and the people of Duscur. And yet I still feel anger towards the people of Faerghus for what they have done. I worry that anger may never subside.”  
  
He takes Dedue’s hands now, holding them in his own.  
  
“You’re allowed to feel that way, Dedue. Nothing can change what happened in the past. It’s-” Ashe doesn’t quite know what to say, nothing seems good enough. His words will never sound as weighty as someone like Dimitri’s, in tone or meaning. “There are things I still get angry about, even after all this time. And none of them compare to anything you’ve had to endure.” He huffs out a laugh. “To be honest, I’d be worried if you weren’t still angry at all about it. And scared too, that everything could go wrong.”  
  
Ashe waits for a reply, but when none comes he continues, rubbing a thumb across the scars on Dedue’s hand, his voice quiet.  
  
“There must be a reason for Dimitri asking you to leave for a while. You could write to him! But uh, tomorrow, not now. Just- I’m here if you want to talk about any of it, okay?”  
  
There’s a moment of silence, one Ashe worries will stretch on forever. Ashe considers what else he can say to comfort Dedue, but before he has a chance to act, he finds himself caught up in a suffocating embrace. Dedue’s arms are wrapped tightly around him, his head resting on Ashe’s shoulder. It’s an awkward position, Dedue having to lean down much further in a way that can’t be comfortable, but Ashe won’t try to move them, not until Dedue wants to. 

“Thank you. You are a good man, Ashe Ubert.”  
  
Ashe stifles a gasp by burying his face in Dedue’s neck. That such simple words could have such an effect on him is a surprise, and Ashe finds himself holding back tears as he finds the words to speak again.  
  
“Dedue Molinaro, you are the bravest man I know.” He can’t stop a small laugh as Dedue tries to readjust from their awkward position. “And the tallest! Though the two aren’t connected.”

  
Then, the most beautiful sound Ashe has ever heard. It starts as little more than a mumble into the fabric of Ashe’s shirt, but soon he can hear the deep rumble of Dedue’s laughter.  
  
“You honour me.”

Eventually they move from the corner of the bed, the old mattress not quite bouncing back as they do. Words of affirmation are murmured between brushing out unruly hair and blowing out the candles. The parchment lies waiting on the desk, ready for tomorrow, and all that it may bring; but for now, Ashe has Dedue, and Dedue has Ashe, and Fhirdiad seems half a world away.

  
  


\-----  
  


  
Summer creeps up on Ashe. It’s only as he’s out in the field, wiping sweat off his brow that he realises it might be time to change into a lighter shirt. The days are long and he and Dedue often find themselves shaking the other awake at the dinner table. Tomorrow they’ll start work on a hay barn, preparing for later in the year. Without Dedue such a task would have been impossible, or would at least have required Ashe asking other farmers for help. But it shouldn’t be too hard, not with the two of them.  
  
Ashe looks out from the field, back towards the house, the chicken coop alongside, the goat pen at the back. Dedue is kneeling at the edge of the field, repairing the crumbling drystone wall. Ashe tries to think back, to remember how it all looked before he arrived, just a few short months ago, but it’s almost impossible. There is life here now, in the soil, in the ivy that still snakes up the side of the farmhouse, and, he supposes, in himself.  
  
The sun will begin to set in an hour or so. He’ll return to the farmhouse then and he and Dedue will cook and smile and talk until the sun goes down.  
  
But until then, he has work to do.

**Author's Note:**

> Next chapter- Summer: Dimitri, revelations, and honesty.
> 
> If you've made it this far, thank you so much for reading! I can’t explain how much it means to me that other people would be interested in reading this.  
> If you’d like to chat with me about this fic, or anything else, you [can find me here on twitter!](https://twitter.com/possiblevoid)


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